One white-gloved thumb moved in an umpire's gesture. Out! The boy with Nick's bags started down the stairs past the blonde. The man with the fez was just opening the door of the gray Renault. Nick got it then. He moved rapidly to his left, away from the Renault. He had gone thirty feet when the thunderous explosion came. Nick turned in time to see the Ranault disappear in a blaze of scarlet and smoke. He stepped behind a palm tree. There was a soft plopping sound and he stared down at a piece of bloody flesh the size of a dinner plate.

1967.